Foreigner

Chapter 36: Grey

Sunday, 10:32 am.

The courtyard is buzzing.

It's the final stretch of the annual Orienteering Challenge—Whittiker's half-baked attempt at injecting "outdoor leadership" into the upperclassmen's final year. Juniors and Seniors have spent the morning running across the grounds with crumpled maps and numbered checkpoints, sprinting between shriveled trees and frozen benches while the wind bites at their ears.

I don't care about any of that.

I don't even look at the scoreboard set up beside the faculty tent. Don't glance at the panting students gathered near the finish line, some still clutching their check-in cards, faces flushed from the cold.

Because the real crowd isn't watching the scoreboard.

They're watching the far side of the court, where Vic Anders leans casually against a stone pillar, arms crossed like a king watching his arena. Adrian lounges on the railing. Dean Lockhart stands beside them like a statue built from war. Caleb is nowhere to be seen, but that's not a surprise—he's probably the one who designed this moment.

At the center of the clearing: a boy. A Senior. Tall-ish. Not muscular. Just unlucky.

No one says his name, but everyone knows him. He's got a reputation for lashing out and breaking things when pushed. Got detention for yelling at a teacher last fall. Said to have punched a locker door off its hinges. Easy to provoke. Easier to blame.

A perfect match.

I step into the space without being called.

I don't run. Don't flex. Just walk straight across the cracked pavement, through the onlookers, and into the ring like it's something I've done before. Like it's routine.

Someone elbows their friend and mutters, "That's Lukas Mai." Another whispers my name like it's suddenly become a threat.

I stop a few feet from the kid. He looks up, confused, eyes narrowing like I've interrupted something.

"You good?" he asks. "You lose your map or something?"

I don't answer.

He shifts his weight. Annoyed now. "Seriously, I don't even know y—"

I hit him.

Hard. Fast. Right in the jaw.

He stumbles back a step, hands flying up, eyes wide. "What the hell—?"

Another hit.

The crowd gasps. No one moves.

He swings wildly, catching my shoulder. I step in, drive a punch into his side. He grunts. Doubles over. I uppercut him before he can think.

I don't stop.

I don't wait for him to recover. I don't give him a second to ask why. Every time his body flinches, I strike again. One to the ribs. One across the face. When he hits the ground, I follow. Pin him with my knee. Fist raised.

Someone, probably a teacher, shouts, "Enough!" but their voice barely carries.

Because Vic still hasn't said a word. His arms are crossed. Watching. Approving.

And if he isn't stopping this, then no one else will.

My final hit lands clean. The boy goes still. Not unconscious. But he's not getting up either.

I stand slowly. My knuckles throb, raw and red. There's blood on my wrist, maybe his, maybe mine.

The air is dead quiet.